The Break-Up Retreat(84)

It’s Clara’s cabin, and when I run up to the door, I see that it’s vibrating; someone is pounding on it.

“Clara?” I yell through the door. “Clara, open the door!”

“It’s not Clara,” I hear Leyla from behind the wood, unmistakable relief in her voice. The pounding stops.

“I can’t open it. It’s locked.”

“What do you mean, it’s locked?”

Armin and Martina are only a few steps behind me, and Martina pushes past Armin, pushing at the door handle.

The door stays closed.

“I don’t know what happened,” Leyla shouts from behind the door. “Clara passed out, and she won’t wake up, and when I tried to go get help the door wouldn’t open.”

Martina fumbles with her jacket before pulling out an overfull keychain. She sorts through it with pale white fingers, her nail polish now chipped and flaking, before pushing a key into the lock.

She turns it. The door swings open.

Leyla is standing behind the door, her short hair wild and messy, her eyes edged with red.

Clara is lying on the bed. Her face is small and slack, the sheets under her messy; one of her arms is wedged under her slumped-over body.

“What’s going on?” Leyla asks, grasping at me, as I look past her to the woman on the bed.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, honestly. “Something bad. Something really bad. We’re trying to get everyone out of here.”

Armin pushes past both me and Martina, and he kneels by the bed, puts two fingers to the side of her neck and his ear to her face.

Leyla turns, and asks:

“Who is that? What is he doing?”

“Is she alive?” I ask Armin.

Martina has closed the door behind us and gone over to the window, peering out of it, staring at the dark, brooding eye of the pond.

Armin nods.

“She’s alive.”

The relief makes me feel like I’m choking. Or dreaming.

“Her pulse is slow, but it’s steady, and she’s breathing,” he adds.

I turn back to Leyla and ask:

“What happened to her?”

I see Leyla’s eyes filling with tears.

“I came back here with her, and she wasn’t feeling well,” She wipes the tears away, quickly and roughly, with the back of her hand.

“I got her on the bed, and I got her a glass of water, tried to get her to stay awake. I thought it was just shock. But then she just . . . passed out. And I couldn’t wake her up again. And when I went for the door, I couldn’t get it open. I’ve been screaming for help, and trying to wake her up, but no one could hear me. And she . . .” Leyla clamps her mouth shut, squeezes her eyes together and shakes her head.

“She must have taken some of those pills you gave her.” I turn to Martina, and I can’t keep the judgement out of my voice.

“Pills?” Leyla asks.

“You can’t blame me for this.” Martina sounds offended. “They’re sleeping aids. I gave her very clear instructions on how to take them. I didn’t tell her to dose herself in the middle of the day!”

“You shouldn’t be giving out pills at all!” I can’t keep from yelling. “You’re a psychologist, not a drug dealer!”

“I have a PhD in psychiatry!” Martina yells back. “Those were legal prescriptions!”

“Yeah, sure they were,” I say. “I’m sure the board would love to hear that you’ve been handing out sleeping pills like candy to your vulnerable patients without oversight.”

“You’ve been giving her pills ?” Leyla shouts.

“They are legal sleeping aids ! They are meant for—”

I interrupt Martina.

“Why was the door locked? Did you tell the caretakers to lock us in?”

“Of course not!” Martina sounds shocked. “Why would I do that?”

Armin stands up from beside the bed.

“I think she’s stable,” he says.

“How would you know that?” Martina shoots off at him. “Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a dentist.” His face is tight. “So I’ve worked with patients under anesthesia. And I’m trained in CPR and basic life support.”

Some small, buried, petty part of me is thrilled to see the dislike written all over his face.

Martina rolls her eyes, but I ignore her. Instead, I turn to Armin, and ask, in a low voice: “Do you think you can carry her?”

He looks down at Clara, and swallows; I see the muscles in his jaw tensing.

“Carry, maybe,” he responds, equally quietly. “But get her over the fence . . . I’m not sure.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Leyla interjects. “And who is this guy? What is a dentist doing here?”

“He’s my friend,” I explain. “He came to check on me. He was worried about me.”

For a brief moment, something wiggles in the depths of my mind, some spark trying to light, connection attempting to be made; but then it’s gone, again. I have no time for brooding.

“I’ve got a car outside the gates,” Armin adds. “We’re trying to get everyone in it and get you all away from here.”

“Why?” Leyla asks.